Wednesday, April 29, 2015

I haven't
the hubris
to assume
you'll follow me
down the
rabbit hole
of vague,
inscrutable
imagery and
poetic conceit,
so I just try
to amuse
with the
workman's toolkit of
humor and pathos,
sex and violence.

I need
an audience
for confirmation,
so I'll sing,
dance,
and in desperation,
burlesque my way
into a motley strip tease,
revealing my
naked soul,
every hairy orifice
and unflattering bulge
on freakish display,
hoping you won't
turn away
and find someone else.

I don't write about
the horsetails in Asia,
or a church bell's lonesome tail,
or anything noble
like that;
its most just about
me.

Seemingly, in humility
I don't describe myself
a poet,
but rather a documentarian
and my only subject
is me,

Monday, April 27, 2015

Take a beautiful,
unique child
and unfavorably compare him
to everyone else.

Buff out his unfinished edges,
sand off his spiky angles.

Paint him ghastly colors
(because those are the colors
that are on sale),
and dress him not for
aesthetics,
but rather
because they fit
his bulky girth.

Feed him daily
three squares of
shame, guilt and self-loathing.
He’ll balk at first,
but he’ll get used to it.

Make him a bookworm,
call him a sissy,
give them a ringside seat
at the glorious childhoods
of his joyous, unworried
classmates.

[Extra Spicy Option:
Make him Mexican,
but don’t make him
dark-skinned,
that would be
too obvious.
Make him
light skinned
so that he thinks
he’s one of his
white classmates,
until they start
telling Mexican jokes.]

Let this concoction
stew for 15-16 years,
and then
when he’s 5 foot 2
and 210 pounds,
with greasy skin,
an erupting face
and tumbleweed hair,
make him suicidal
after the girl he’s been
writing love poems for,
tells him that she only
likes him as a friend.

But
don’t let him die yet.

No.

Give him
a pen,
some paper,
and the loneliness
he’s known for years,
stretch him into
a full-grown man,
and whisper in his ear:

“It’s ok to be angry.
Now, write.”

Teach him how
to deny
everything he
used to shove
in his mouth
(because he’s so
orally fixated)
and teach him
to begin running
obsessively.

Awaken him
so he can
write his own destiny,
paint his own paradise
and then enter it.

Guide him
through college,
through losing
his virginity(wherein an angel of mercytook pity anddeflowered hima month shyof his 20th birthday,just so he could sayhe had sex at least onceas a teenager),
through college
and into adulthood,
where he will become
a nervous-stomached,
130 bpm pulse pounding
faceless, over-achieving
college dean.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

1. Decide if you want
it to be
abstract
or representational,
as this will
determine the
poem’s trajectory.

2. Pick three memories
of your beloved
(two obvious ones
and one almost forgotten one),
and set them aside.
Later, scatter them
throughout your work
to suggest
your beloved
has casually become
the center of your
universe.

3. Write something
about your beloved
that you cannot say
about any other person
in the world.
Do not despair,
if necessary,
fabricate something credible
and trust that the person
will grow into that.

4. Make a positive comparison
about one of your partner’s
physical attributes
to something non-physical,
“your lips
hold the promise
of a hundred
Christmas Eves.”

5a. (for men only),
if you must write
about her body parts,
do not use slang
or the anatomically
correct Latin term;
either of these will
kill the mood,
5b. (for women only),
if you must write
about your future plans,
do not mention marriage
or wished-for children;
either of these will
kill the mood.

6. Dump all
these ingredients
into a word processor,
hit the start button.
Turn it off
when your words
begin to look
like mush.

7. Do not present your poem
in calligraphy
or have it center-aligned,
both of which
imply insecurity.
Simple handwriting
or a plain font,
left justified
should suffice.

8. If you realize
that your poem
doesn't adequately
convey the expanse
of your love,
that means

Thursday, April 16, 2015

No two heartbeats
thump exactly alike
and no two sets of eyes
perceive the same thing
the same way
and so it is with
the self.

So,
tear open your soul,
not neatly as though
you were unzipping
a windbreaker,
but madly
as a thirsting man
in the desert,
guzzling it,
too lustful in
consumption
to worry about
appearance.

Remember,
the Infinite
does not just move
outward
but once you recognize
that it penetrates
inward
you will never
be bored again,
as you dig deeper,
revealing more
layers of mystery
hiding in your DNA,
interwoven in your soul.

I cannot tell you
how to access this,
but I know
once you understand
that everything
has been building
up to
this
very
moment
right
NOW!
then your days
will be made as
fine masterpieces,
universal yet personal
works of art,

Wednesday, April 08, 2015

The only one
I threw away
intentionally
was the whine
written for the
deranged and depraved
married woman
who pursued me
after my newlywed bride
abandoned me
and my heart
was oozing
pus all over
our still-unopened
wedding presents.

In weakness
I wrote it
and in weakness
I dishonored
her marriage.

I secretly wish
every poem I ever
gave away
is still somewhere
secretly tucked
inside a memory box,
yellowed and folded,
treasured beyond
explanation,

except the one
I threw away.

I hope that one
was unceremoniously
dumped along with
wadded candy wrappers,
sticky, spent condoms
and other detritus
born of regret.

Tuesday, April 07, 2015

When the Lord’s Supper
is shared in our church
lights are dimmed,
and I was grateful
for the darkness,
because I was doubting,
despairing,
wondering why
the Lord
saw fit
to scratch
my daughter’s brain,in utero,
marking her with
cerebral palsy,
mild enough
to prompt the
well-meaning,
but ignorant
“well,
at least
it’s not
that bad.”

(Never mind that she
has been diagnosed
with depression
since she was 7;
anxiety and OCD
as a teen.)

I sat with my head
in my hands,
hiding my tears,
thinking,

“where is her miracle?
Do You even perform
miracles anymore?”

Sensing the usher
standing by,
I looked up
and it was Bill.

Bill should have died,
when he was driving
that two-lane highway
through the Badlands,
and was struck
head-on
by a Mack truck.

He was in
intensive care
for half a year,
rehabilitated
for a half more
and now
here he was,
smiling and offering me
God’s grace
in the form of
an unleavened cracker
and a plastic
cup of grape juice.

I ate the bread,
drank the juice,
and patiently
kept on
waiting
for her miracle.

Friday, April 03, 2015

When we met at that Starbucks
I didn't think it’d change my life
I didn't think I’d find a wife
but there you were.

Now we sit by the fireplace
in this home that we both share
in a love I’d never dare
dream would feel so pure.

Through the years so many memories
put smiles upon my face
and time will not erase
how you answered every prayer.

But lately you seem somewhere else
and the question that I see
have you lost interest in me,
do you have something to share?

Let’s have one more cup of coffee
and we’ll sort everything out,
like we did when we were new
and we didn't have a doubt,
let’s slow down and just remember
the dreams we made back when,
just one more cup of coffee
could make everything right again.

I know that time has changed my body
by it hasn't changed my heart
like I knew right from the start
and I let him lead the way.

What can I do to make you feel
the way you felt when you said yes
that excited hopefulness
grows fainter every day.

Perhaps there’s nothing I can do
to re-ignite that spark
where it now feels cold and dark,
something here’s amiss.

So we’re polite but we don’t face it
knowing something isn't right,
we fall asleep each night
without even trying to kiss.

Let’s have one more cup of coffee
and look each other in the eye,
fixing this might be painful
that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
but if you've already decided
please don’t tease me with a lie,
just one more cup of coffee
then you can tell me goodbye.

Thursday, April 02, 2015

I shared a room
with two brothers -
a bed with one of them
until I was 16-
so I learned not to expect
too much privacy.

My earliest memories
were sitting with my brothers
on the couch that my father
reupholstered himself,
(partly
because he could reupholster
and partly
because we
couldn't afford new furniture)
watching Warner Brothers cartoons,
memorizing the voices
and the jokes,
on the color TV
that occasionally died
and my father would
resurrect with his vast
collection of glass vacuum tubes
he kept in a shoe box,
again,
because he knew how
and because
we couldn't afford
a new TV.

The kitchen
had a breakfast nook
upholstered in pleather
(again, my father)
that made our thighs
stick as we slid in
wearing shorts
on hot summer days,
and my mom would concoct
things that only now
I have the words
to describe:
her go-to meal was collect
all the leftovers
and throw them in a skillet,
bind them all together
with egg
and serve it up in a tortilla.

My favorite place,
my only sanctuary,
was the spot on the floor
in front of the "stereo"
where I would
plug in my Pop's
over-the-ear
gray and black
plastic headphones
and listen to the FM radio,
or albums I borrowed
from the library,

and I would
escape from my world
of patched-up furniture,
hand-me-down clothes
leftover recipes
and my unspoken
Mexican inferiority complex

and I would dream
I was in a New York high rise,
or a Los Angeles bachelor pad,
or a Chicago recording studio,
anywhere but there.